


Impromptu

by duvent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duvent/pseuds/duvent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>originally <a href="http://entresoul.tumblr.com/post/121628770433/happy-midoaka-month">posted</a> for <a href="http://midoaka-month.tumblr.com">MidoAka Month</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	Impromptu

**Author's Note:**

> originally [posted](http://entresoul.tumblr.com/post/121628770433/happy-midoaka-month) for [MidoAka Month](http://midoaka-month.tumblr.com)

At Akashi’s house, a bay window in the living room lends its space as a seating area to both him and his boyfriend. It’s a study session of sorts, one scheduled indoors because they were expecting rain, although the sun now blesses their heads with a radiance worthy of the summer season.

“Not bad,” Midorima says. “If I had known it was going to be this nice out, we could’ve studied at the park.”

Akashi is paging through his notes, thankful for his neat handwriting. “It’s still too windy. Our papers would fly everywhere.”

“I suppose,” Midorima replies, then slams his laptop shut and yawns.

“You finished working?” Akashi still has another unit to review.

“No, but it’s going to overheat soon. Can I?” Midorima gestures to the Steinway grand piano at the centre of the room, hands itching to play.

“Go ahead.” Akashi welcomes the distraction, admitting to himself that he reads at a slower pace when Shintarou is beside him.

Midorima brushes his fingers over the shining keys. He takes a seat and rolls his sleeves up, automatically adjusting the bench a few centimetres lower. When he begins to play, his shoulders drop, a cultivated instinct that lets his phrases breathe.

_Schubert’s Impromptu in G flat major_ , Akashi’s memory yells, like he’s on a quiz show. He can tell Midorima’s been out of practice; nevertheless, the clarity of the top note in the right hand rings through, singing as if it belongs in a Lied. Akashi can picture a younger Midorima performing this, can imagine his singular focus on each dynamic and expression, with tiny laces on his shoes bouncing as he pedals.

Midorima stops three pages in, eyebrows knitted, showcasing a doubt of his ability to handle the inner notes.   

“It’s nice. Keep playing if you want.”

“No, I’m good. I’m not sure I remember the rest anyway.” Midorima gets up and walks over to a shelf of scores, uncategorized books, and trophies, the dust on which is illuminated in this bright afternoon. He reads the titles of all the volumes before returning to the alcove with a hefty stack. Setting them down, Midorima rubs his throbbing fingers, then extends his right hand out and flexes his wrist. “Ah, it’s been a while. That piece is more demanding than it seems. Kind of like you.”

Akashi is about to retort, but holds his tongue when he realizes Midorima is baiting him. So he just takes the offered hand and cherishes how he can hold the slender fingers in his own.  

Eyeing the pile of music, he asks “What’s with all that?”

“I’m just looking. You have an interesting library - not all of these are for the violin.” Midorima opens a compilation of piano works by the First Viennese School and traces over some of the staff lines with his left hand.

“My teacher left most of those behind. I was told it would be beneficial to learn how composers approach different musical forms and instruments,” Akashi explains.

“It makes sense. You’d develop an ear for how to play off other musicians in an orchestra,” Midorima points out.

“Yes, that’s what adjudicators said too. I wish you could’ve accompanied me in competitions,” Akashi says, reflecting on how his accompaniments were always of a high quality, yet remained impassive to his melodic storytelling.

“I can play with you whenever now. All we have is time.”

“And assignments and projects. And -”

Akashi continues to list their prior commitments, but his chest leaps, like a wide crescendo.

“Okay, we’ll save it for the next ‘rainy day.’” Midorima pushes his glasses up, which are falling off.

Akashi spots an eyelash on one of his lenses. Cute, he thinks, and without asking, grabs the glasses and places them on the window sill.

“Hey, I can’t see,” Midorima protests, moving closer to avoid squinting at Akashi. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

“So are yours, but I don’t just want to stare into them all day.”

“Wha -” Midorima says, lifting one hand, covering his mouth to stifle an inevitable laugh.

Akashi takes Midorima’s hand away, replaces it with a kiss and then taps his nose playfully.

“I could though.” It’s true, Akashi thinks, not sure if he’s acknowledged that out loud before.

Midorima responds by pulling him back, one arm around his neck. “I’m super lucky to have you to myself,” he says, hugging Akashi close. At times like this, when Shintarou’s tone is unwavering, Akashi’s equally serious feelings are returned, which warms his body more than the sunlight on his back.

Akashi plants another kiss, this time on Midorima’s neck, just because. He lets himself sink into Midorima’s frame and tugs on his shirt. “Stay like this for a bit.”

“If you’re tired, there’s a couch right here. I can carry you over. Take a nap,” Midorima suggests.

“I’m not tired.”

“Okay…”

Akashi ignores the disbelief in Midorima’s voice. “Besides, if you’re going to carry me, bring me to my room.”

Midorima looks down at the redhead. Akashi meets his gaze and they challenge each other, their cheeks twitching, threatening to betray their still youthful inexperience with serious relationships.

“I’ve got a meeting for my group project early tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Akashi sighs, with a hint of a smile to show he’s not really mad. “Tell me a story then.”

“I don’t have any stories. We were in class all day, and I had lunch with you.”

“Just talk. I like the sound of your voice.”

And so Midorima begins listing the details of his day, from how he dived to retrieve the charm that fell off his phone at the train station much to other passengers’ amusement this morning, to a summary of a book he’s reading, to all the laundry he has to do and the mystery of missing socks.

Akashi appreciates these tidbits of information for bringing him closer to Midorima’s world. He doesn’t think he’s tired, but leaning on Midorima relaxes him, inviting his mind to shut down for a while. As a warm wind travels through an open window, soft as the words that he can only now half-hear, Akashi yields to the impromptu nap.

Pausing in order to recall a joke one of his professors made this morning, Midorima remembers instead that he can stop talking, knowing Akashi has already fallen asleep through a silence that gives off less tension than his studious self.

He could move, but at the same time, he wants Akashi to rest. So Midorima’s eyes sweep the room, settling on a vase of irises perched on a table, enlivening nearby photos in their staid frames. The gleam of the floor hosts specks of dancing light, and despite its imposing presence, the grandeur of the piano loses out to these small details, just like the ones that compose their everyday lives.


End file.
